


I Want Something Just Like This (compare with chapters 1 - 3 in full version)

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-06 13:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11037498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: The worst gnawing pain of his grief lessens over time. John never goes a day without thinking about Sherlock – how can he not when he's still living in the flat they shared, when Sherlock is in every single object, his ghost floating through every single room? The daily reminders eventually become welcome because John never wants to forget. He had nothing before he met Sherlock and now, even though Sherlock is gone, John is still alive and loved.





	1. I Want Something

**Author's Note:**

> Since this series will go back and forth between John and Sherlock, I've decided to create a timeline. The timeline isn't canon. All you need to know is:
> 
> September 2011: Sherlock fakes his death (canon says June 2011)  
> March 2012: John meets Gerald

* * *

John is standing by himself on the street watching Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart's. John watches as Sherlock falls.

John sees Sherlock's body on the pavement. He sees the blood. He touches Sherlock's wrist. There's no pulse but if everyone would get out of the way, he can take Sherlock's pulse properly. Maybe Sherlock just has a weak pulse and if he can hold onto his wrist long enough he can  tell them Sherlock is alive. The medics are pushing John away. John kneels outside the circle and watches as they put Sherlock on a stretcher and hurry him away. They go through the door to the morgue. Poor Molly, John thinks.

The people disperse. John tries to get to his feet. His head hurts and his hands and elbows are scraped from his accident with the bicycle. John kneels on the sidewalk and stares at Sherlock's blood. Sherlock is dead. He gets to his feet. Sherlock's blood is on the toe of his left shoe.

He walks down the street. He forgets how to get home. He can't organize his thoughts. This is what it was like when he was shot. If someone had asked John how bad the pain was when he got shot, he would have described it as exquisite. It's the kind of pain that forces your brain to dump endorphins in your body. It leaves you feeling numb and stupid. It's not unbearable because you bear it or you go into shock. Or you die.

John gets in a taxi and goes home. He takes his socks and shoes off. The toe of his left shoe has blood on it. He looks at it. He puts the shoe down on the coffee table. He picks it up again and thinks about taking it to the kitchen and cleaning it but he wants to keep Sherlock's blood on his shoe. He's not ready to wipe it off yet. He puts the shoe back down on the coffee table. He doesn't know where the other shoe is but that's okay for now.

He sits down in his chair and stares at Sherlock's chair but he's not really looking at the chair. He's looking at Sherlock on the roof of St. Bart's. He watches Sherlock fall and then he watches him fall again. His mind starts adding in extra details – the fear Sherlock must've felt as he fell. The sound his body would have made when it hit the ground.

He mostly feels numb and that stumbling stupidity that he had when he got shot. He's confused. Nothing makes sense but that's okay. He's grateful for it right now. He's not ready to feel anything. He's tired. He wants to sleep but he's afraid he'll wake up and the numbness will have gone away.

He stands up. He knows where he's going but he's not going to think about why just yet. He walks through the kitchen and into the little hallway and then into Sherlock's bedroom. The bed is unmade. There's a small red rubber ball in the middle of the bed. He laughs but it's just a whisper, one puff of breath. He picks it up and sits on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock hardly spent any time in here except to sleep, which he only did rarely, and to dress. Okay – he did spend a lot of time dressing. John used to chide him for his vanity. John stands back up and puts the red rubber ball in his pocket. He walks to Sherlock's wardrobe and opens it. There's a bag from the cleaners that John picked up for him yesterday. Sherlock asked him to pick it up. It doesn't make sense for Sherlock to ask John to pick up his dry cleaning when he knows he's going to kill himself the next day.

But nothing makes sense right now so John lets his eyes slide away. He runs a hand over one of Sherlock's shirts. He's wanted to do that for a long time. He pretends he can feel the heat of Sherlock's body underneath the shirt. John watches Sherlock fall from the roof of St. Bart's again. He slams the wardrobe shut.

He takes a deep breath and then takes out his wallet, his phone, his keys and the red rubber ball and puts them on the settee next to Sherlock's wardrobe. He avoids looking in the mirror. He takes off his jeans and folds them neatly and puts them on top of his things. He unbuttons his shirt and then his cuffs and shrugs out of his shirt. He tries to fold it neatly but he's always hated trying to fold long sleeve shirts. He usually hangs them up. In the end he folds it in half and lays it over the arm of the settee.

He's in his t-shirt and pants. He looks at Sherlock's bed. He walks over to it and sits down. He doesn't know how long he sits there. Finally he lies down. He puts his face into the pillow and takes a deep breath. It smells a little like Sherlock but the truth is he doesn't really know what Sherlock smells like up close. For now it's enough just to lay his head where Sherlock's head has been. He lies there and he pretends that Sherlock lies there with him and wonders why he waited until Sherlock was dead to have a fantasy about going to bed with him. He's an idiot. He could've been having all kinds of sex with Sherlock in his fantasies. Why did he wait?

He pulls off his t-shirt and throws it on the floor. Next he pulls off his pants and throws them on the floor, too. He's lying naked in Sherlock's bed and even though Sherlock isn't here with him and even though Sherlock will never be here with him, he allows himself this one chance just to pretend. There's nothing wrong with pretending right now. Sherlock's only been dead a few hours. Who will blame John for wanting to hold onto him a little longer?

What he does next will stay with him for years. Sometimes he will think about it and the shame he feels when he does will threaten to choke him.

He pretends Sherlock is lying in bed next to him. He's on his side facing John with his head propped in his hand and he's smiling. His eyes are warm and a little bit mischievous and very, very sexy. Sherlock is wearing a dress shirt and trousers. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, just like Sherlock always wears them. It's a little weird that Sherlock's fully dressed and John is naked but this is a fantasy so John just goes with it.

Sherlock's hand reaches for John's shoulder. He slides two fingers from John's shoulder to his hand, which is resting on his hip. Then Sherlock's palm settles at the small of John's back and he pulls John close to him. He kisses John and the longing John feels is so strong that his stomach rolls and he thinks he might throw up. He gasps for air. In his fantasy, Sherlock pulls away and his eyebrows come together in puzzled concern but he doesn't say anything.

When the nausea passes, Sherlock smiles again, that little half smile. That smirk. Sherlock traces his fingers over John's chest but the whole time he touches John he never looks away from John's eyes. His hand trails down John's stomach and his smile changes. It almost disappears but John can still see the smile in his eyes. It's bold and intense and wicked. John knows this is only how he imagines Sherlock would look if they have – could have, didn't have – sex. It looks good on Sherlock. John thinks about the blood on the toe of his left shoe but then Sherlock's hand wraps around John's cock and John stops thinking and lets himself just feel. He closes his eyes but he hears Sherlock say  _open your eyes, John_  so John opens his eyes. Sherlock watches John with his wicked eyes while he gets John off with his hand. When John comes, Sherlock's eyes open up wide, pretending to be scandalized. John laughs, his body limp and relaxed.

He tries to put his arm around Sherlock but he ends up face down on the bed. Of course he knew Sherlock wasn't really here but he thought he could pretend a little longer. He's crying and his cheeks are wet and his hand is wet because he has just masturbated in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock has been dead less than two hours and John has used that time to have a wank in his bed. He wipes his hand on the place where Sherlock was lying. He can't look at the wet spot because the shame overwhelms him.

He lies in Sherlock's bed and he cries and hates himself for it. He's pathetic. It's true that he had plenty of valid reasons not to tell Sherlock he was in love with him. First of all, Sherlock wasn't interested in romance so telling him would've just made things awkward. Second, John was confused about his sexuality – was he bisexual or was Sherlock the only man he would ever be attracted to?

Mostly, though, he never said anything because there's nothing more pathetic than unrequited love, especially when you live with the person who's failing to requite your love. He thought he would have time to figure it out. He thought  _they_  would have time to figure it out. How could he have predicted that Sherlock would jump off of the roof of St. fucking Bart's?

John thinks that if he had been a better friend or a better man or a braver man, then maybe Sherlock wouldn't have jumped. Maybe if John had told Sherlock he was in love with him then Sherlock would have felt he had something to live for, even if it was just to mock John for being enslaved by sentiment. Maybe if John had been the kind of man worth living for even when you felt like dying then Sherlock wouldn't have jumped. He would have come home and he would have talked about it with John and they would've figured it out together.

Although he can't help but wonder what Sherlock would've thought if he could see John having a wank in his bed. What kind of fucked up person does that anyway?

~*~

Mycroft comes to see him a few days after the funeral. John makes tea but neither man speaks until John hands Mycroft his cup and saucer. (A cup and saucer for Mycroft but a plain mug for John.)

"I would like to continue to pay Sherlock's share of the rent," Mycroft says after John sits down in Sherlock's chair.

They both take a sip of tea. John stares at the tea in his mug, the surface rippling slightly. His tremor has returned, although not as bad as before.

"I'm not sure I should stay," John says.

He hears Mycroft shifting in his chair, and then a deep sigh.

"John, I know you must be in terrible grief. Please believe me when I say there's nothing you could have done to stop him."

John feels his eyes beginning to burn with tears so he keeps his head lowered.

"I'm a doctor, Mycroft. I don't know how I could've missed the signs of depression. I should've known something was wrong – his obsession with Moriarty was eating him up. I felt him drawing away but Sherlock was the least likely person I've ever met to commit suicide."

"My brother was very good at wearing a mask, John, and in the end, it was _his_ decision to jump. There was nothing you did or didn't do to push him to make that decision." He pauses and John hears him set the cup and saucer down on the table next to the chair. "Please stay, John. It's what Sherlock would have wanted. It's what I want and I'm certain it's what Mrs. Hudson wants."

John nods his head. "Okay, then."

Just like that, the decision is made.

~*~

After a few weeks of sleeping in Sherlock's bed every night, John decides to move into Sherlock's bedroom permanently. He packs all of Sherlock's clothes away in John's old closet. He changes the sheets and makes the bed. He picks up all of the clutter on the floor and packs it away in boxes.

He cries every night for the first few weeks after Sherlock is gone. The pain is unbelievable. It overwhelms him completely sometimes. He's taken two weeks of sympathetic leave from the surgery so he doesn't have much to do during the day. He invites Molly for tea, aiming to maintain ties with the friends he made through Sherlock, but she's distant and reserved; she avoids John's eyes. She and John never really developed much of a relationship – their only commonality was Sherlock – so John understands why she doesn't feel very comfortable around him. He doesn't see her again after that because, of course, he has no reason to go to St. Bart's.

He goes out for a pint with Lestrade and Mike regularly. He meets at least one of them at a pub every week, almost a regular thing. Everyone feels the pall of Sherlock's death hanging over them. Life seems to be devoid of vitality and John's grateful he's not the only one who feels it.

Mrs. Hudson helps John pack Sherlock's stuff up. They move it into 221c after Mycroft pays for someone to come in and fix the problem with the damp. (Faulty weather proofing around the window – they also put in double glazing.) John keeps things like the skull, and the hunting knife, the framed bat, the print of a skull-that's-also-two-ladies-sitting-down-to-tea if you look at it from a different angle. And, of course, he keeps Sherlock's violin, settled into its case and locked up and upright next to the music stand. The flat looks the same. The only thing missing is Sherlock.

John goes back to work. He breaks his days down into discrete, manageable goals. Wake up. Get dressed. Eat. Go to work. Come home. Eat. Watch telly or read or go to the pub, alone or with someone. On his days off, he tries to visit Mrs. Hudson. The first month after Sherlock's death, Mrs. Hudson breaks down in tears every time John visits her and John is grateful for the opportunity to comfort her because it keeps him from his own grief. He spends a lot of time walking on his days off, just to get out of the flat and keep himself from folding into a tight knot of pain. The walking is also good for him; now that he's not running around London after Sherlock, he doesn't want to get fat sitting around.

The worst gnawing pain of his grief lessens over time. John never goes a day without thinking about Sherlock – how can he not when he's still living in the flat they shared, when Sherlock is in every single object, his ghost floating through every single room? The daily reminders eventually become welcome because John never wants to forget. He had nothing before he met Sherlock and now, even though Sherlock is gone, John is still alive and loved.

He has Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him and bring him biscuits and make tea; John doesn't hear the familiar strain of _I'm not your housekeeper_ anymore. One day, Mrs. Hudson breaks down in tears and tells him she wishes she had done for Sherlock what she now does for John. _I wish I hadn't been so stroppy about feeding him up and keeping the flat tidy._ John assures her that Sherlock knew she loved him. She was the only person John ever saw Sherlock be physically affectionate with.

He has Lestrade, who meets him for a pint every Friday night if he can get out. He's suspended so there's not much else for him to do, he says. His marriage has fallen right apart. John listens to his woes, glad to have the focus off of himself. A month after Sherlock's death, Lestrade confides that Anderson has left, gone right off his rocker, and Lestrade confesses he's glad. It's bad enough having to see Donovan at work. He admits he can't even look at her; _I'll never forgive her_ , he says one night, holding the tears back. _I'll never forgive myself_.

After a few months, when Lestrade is reinstated, he invites John to go out with people from the Yard to celebrate, including Dimmock. John enjoys being in the company of the detectives. They are a rowdy bunch, eager to affirm life in the midst of all the death they see every day.

He spends time with Mike Stamford, who's always been a cheerful bloke. Mike comes across as oblivious, but he's not. He sees under the surface and reads between the lines. He's an empathetic listener. In the first month after Sherlock's death, John tells him over and over again how grateful he is that Mike took him back to Bart's that day. _I would be dead_ , he tells him. _I would have killed myself, had already been thinking about it before I met Sherlock_.

Even Mycroft visits occasionally (or kidnaps John), making the effort to maintain a relationship with John even though they have never seen eye to eye. John begins to enjoy Mycroft's sly humor and arrogant disdain when it's turned on everyone else. One day Mycroft quietly admits to John that he knows John was in love with Sherlock. _Thank you for loving my brother_ , he says. _He might not have known that your love was romantic but he certainly knew that you did love him._ Mycroft leaves John to his tears after that, for which John is grateful. He's also grateful, though, for what Mycroft is really saying – Sherlock didn't die because John didn't confess his love. Sherlock didn't die because of anything John did or didn't say or do. _John, you are the best thing that ever happened to my brother. Remember that._

~*~

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful, selfless, indispensable betas: Boonchandi and StarlingGirl. They both have full time jobs and take time out to read my shit. Any mistakes you find were added after their hard work.


	2. Just Like This

* * *

One Saturday afternoon six months after Sherlock's death, John is walking through Regent's Park, when he decides on the spur of the moment to go for a pint somewhere new. He takes the tube from Regent's Park station to Euston Square station and heads to Euston Tap. The pub is fairly quiet, it being the middle of the day. Several of the tables are full but there's only one other person sitting at the bar. John glances over at him when he sits down and then does a double take.

The man isn't much taller than John, maybe an inch or two. He's got dark brown hair and pale skin. He reminds John a little of Moriarty and John shudders. He's even got those delicate features that Moriarty had – he's almost pretty.

The man turns to face him and smiles; John realizes he's been staring.

"I'm Gerald," the man says, reaching out his hand over the two stools separating them. He looks amused. The tips of John's ears turn pink.

"John."

They shake.

"You were looking at me like you recognized me. Did I remind you of someone?"

"Yeah," John says and turns back to face the bar, not sure he wants to get drawn into a conversation with a stranger. He looks Gerald over in his peripheral vision.

The comparison with Moriarty doesn't stand up on closer inspection. Gerald has shoulder length black hair and his eyes are more hazel than brown when the sunlight catches them at a certain angle. His hair is tucked behind his ears. He’s open, friendly and relaxed. His body is turned mostly towards John, giving him his full attention. He's wearing cargo trousers that hang a little loose on his hips and a short sleeve black shirt. The top two buttons are undone.

"I hope it's someone you like," Gerald says. His smile is inviting and open. His lower front teeth are slightly crooked, but they don't make his smile any less beautiful.

John scoffs. "Hated the bastard."

"Well, that's just my bad luck, then," Gerald says with a laugh.

John looks at him with a frown. "How's that?"

"I was going to offer to buy you a drink, but I'd hate to bring up bad memories."

The surprise John feels must register on his face because Gerald looks a little uncertain. John can't tell if this bloke is trying to chat him up or just being really friendly. John finally turns towards Gerald and really _observes_ \- not only observing Gerald but also observing how John himself feels about Gerald. He lets himself imagine kissing Gerald’s full lips, brushing his hair behind his ear, tucking his fingers inside the waist of Gerald’s trousers.

John feels it - the flood of sexual attraction. The most surprising thing is that he’s _not_ surprised to want a man. The desire has been there all along, hidden in his psyche, but now it’s forefront in his mind and it’s begging John to act.

"By the look on your face, I'm thinking my luck has changed for the better," Gerald says, his voice lower and rougher. He gestures to the bar stool next to John and asks, “May I?”

John nods, his mouth turned up a little at the corner. When Gerald is sitting next to him, John feels a shiver of excitement travel up and down his spine.

"So - can I buy you a drink?" Gerald asks.

"Yeah," John says and then grins.

~*~

Several drinks and three hours later, the pub is beginning to fill with patrons, but it might as well be empty for all the attention that Gerald and John are paying it. The two of them are leaning towards each other and their mutual attraction is apparent to them and anyone who looks at them.

Gerald, John discovers, is a professional Dom. John doesn't believe him at first. It takes Gerald a half hour to convince him he's not lying.

"I read psychology at Oxford. I worked for a while as a therapist. It's what makes me a good Dom – being able to read people and help them realize what they want.

"I used to be a conventional therapist, but I had a few clients who couldn't work out their issues. They were spending thousands of dollars on therapy but still using drugs or alcohol or sex to cope. Their marriages were still falling apart; they were still alienating their families.

"At the time, I was just getting into the dom/sub lifestyle and one day a female client of mine – a very beautiful and successful woman – said she wished someone would just _beat_ some sense into her. That's when I got the idea to switch from conventional therapy to what I do now. I asked her if she was interested and she said yes.

"She was my first client and from there, my practice grew by word of mouth."

"And you really don't have sex with them?" John asks, still a little disbelieving.

"Oh, bloody hell no!" Gerald says, laughing. John likes Gerald's laugh. It's open and full-bodied, not at all self-conscious. "No, that's an absolute hard limit. I've never slept with anyone I've been a Dom for. My sex life is almost boringly vanilla."

"So there's no whips and dog collars involved in your sex life?" John asks, grinning.

"Whips, maybe," Gerald says, his cheeks pinking in a way that makes John want to lean forward and kiss him. "Dog collars, definitely not. My clients don't come to me for sex. They come to work out their issues."

"Tell me how it works, then. Go on," John says, nudging Gerald's knee with his.

"Well, my clients are referred by another client. There's reams of paperwork! My barrister writes it all up for me – she's a genius. It takes at least an hour to go over the paperwork.

"Then I take them upstairs to the therapy room and show them the tools of my trade and explain what I expect from them. We talk about what they want to do during their sessions and what instruments they want me to use on them.

"If we both agree, then we schedule an appointment for their first therapy session. During the first appointment, I only spend about fifteen minutes working them over. I have to pay very close attention with new clients. It takes at least five sessions for me to really get a grasp of what they can or can't handle. I use pretty mild instruments. There's nothing hardcore about what I do. I don't break the skin or anything."

"Are they naked when you do it?" John asks, fascinated.

"It depends on where they want to be hit. I don't hit genitals or breasts. Everything I do makes it clear to the client that this isn't a sexual act between them and myself. So that's just a hard limit for me. But, yeah, I have to be able to see their skin."

"And you don't get off on it?" John asks, honestly curious but not at all judgmental.

"It can be titillating," Gerald says. "But I don't get off on it, no. I apply all the same ethics I would if I were still doing traditional therapy. I'm really good at drawing boundaries and being objective. That's just my personality, really. I've always been the one my family and friends come to when they need someone to talk to. I'm not much of a risk taker, really. My unusual profession notwithstanding, of course. "

"What do you wear?"

"When I'm in a session with a client?"

"Yeah."

"Scrubs," Gerald says and shrugs. "What? It's hard work! I can only see about three or four clients a day. My arms would give out otherwise."

John's eyes linger on Gerald's arms and when Gerald notices, John feels his face heating up. He ducks his head in embarrassment. Suddenly Gerald's head is right next to John's.

"Come home with me," Gerald says softly into John's ear, causing a tremor to run through John's body.

"I, uh, I'm not," John says and stops, his face getting even hotter.

"You're not interested?" Gerald asks, sounding disappointed.

"I am, I'm just – I've never gone home with someone I've only just met," John says, which isn't the truth. He's gone home with at least a dozen women in his life, some of whom were one night stands and some who he ended up having an actual relationship with. They were all women, though.

"Well, then come home with me and we'll get to know each other," Gerald says and puts both hands on John's knees. "I can make you supper and ply you with alcohol."

"Cheeky," John says, laughing.

Gerald is teasing but his eyes are dark with arousal. The idea of going home with him causes desire to uncurl deep inside John's belly.

"Yeah, okay," John says with a grin.

"Okay?" Gerald asks. "Okay. Good!"

 Gerald pays the tab and then takes John's hand and leads him outside. The air is humid; spring is just around the corner and even though it's almost eight in the evening, the sky is still light. Gerald hails a cab, and doesn't let go of John's hand until they're climbing inside, and then he takes John's hand again. John tries not to stare at Gerald, but he really is an incredibly good-looking man. John wants him but he's embarrassed to tell Gerald he's never actually been with a man.

Gerald catches his eye. "You look unsure," he says. "Changed your mind?"

"No, I just – " John stops, looking at the cabbie. John doesn't want the cabbie to overhear.

"Tell me when we get to my flat," Gerald says, and pats John's hand comfortingly.

Gerald pays the fare when the cab drops them off at an older building right on the edge of Soho. Gerald must be wealthy to live in such a prime location. John stands there for a minute just staring at the buttery yellow front door with its brass knocker. He idly wonders how Gerald manages to keep the door so clean.

Gerald stands in the doorway, an expectant but not impatient look on his face. John stands on the pavement, feeling like an idiot.

"Still want to come in?" Gerald asks.

"Yeah, I do," John says and it's the truth.

Inside the door, John takes in Gerald's flat. It's done up in warm but light colors. There's a staircase directly ahead of the front door. The risers and walls are the color of sand and the steps and trim a muted terracotta.

To the right is a small dining room and beyond that, John can see a kitchen. The flat is modest in size but not cluttered, so it doesn't feel small or cramped.

There's a sideboard inside the front door and John sees half a dozen photographs of Gerald with his parents (obviously), his siblings (probably), friends (obviously). Sherlock would be proud, John thinks, for John to have deduced these things. (Although they would be obvious to anyone, Sherlock-inside-John's-head says.) Gerald puts his keys in a glass bowl on the sideboard. There's a stack of mail that he picks up.

"Gimme a sec; I'm just going to put these in my office," Gerald says and smiles at John, that heart arresting grin that John has become victim to sometime in the past three or four hours.

Gerald disappears through a door to the immediate left of the front door but leaves it open a crack. John peeks in and sees a small office and Gerald sorting through his mail. A narrow hallway along the left side of the stairs leads to a living room. Two leather armchairs sit on an oriental rug in front of a clean fireplace. The fireplace is functional, though – the hint of swept ashes are visible on the brick hearth. Another sideboard holds more pictures, a crystal decanter set (empty) and a reproduction of a Degas sculpture – one of the ballerinas. John knows nothing about art but this he recognizes.

The floors are hardwood, unfinished pine. There's a wicker basket on the floor beyond the sideboard that holds a pair of wellies and trainers.

"Should I take my shoes off?" John calls through the office door.

"If you like," Gerald calls back. "You don't have to, though. Why don't you pick a bottle of wine from the wine rack and open it up for us?"

John goes ahead and toes off his shoes and then pulls off his socks, tucking them into one of his shoes. He pushes himself upright again and then looks around the dining room table and sees the wine rack. It's a proper one, too, holding at least a dozen different bottles from dark red to barest champagne color. John knows nothing about wines, either, but he knows what he likes so he picks a Merlot. The tools of wine-drinking are displayed in a box, nestled in velvet. Clearly Gerald entertains often. The dining room table only seats four but there's a line in the middle indicating a drop leaf.

John uncorks the bottle and pulls two wine glasses off of the shelf above the wine rack. He pours the wine and. Gerald is just coming into the dining room when John picks up the glasses. He hands one to Gerald.

"Ah, thank you," Gerald says. He takes a sip, closes his eyes and sighs.

"Long day?" John asks.

"Yeah. Like an idiot, I went out with a few friends last night and stayed up far past my bedtime but I had to get up at six because I had two clients this morning and – _ugh_. I'm knackered."

John feels a pulse of disappointment in his chest. "I can go if you're – "

"No!" Gerald says, almost spilling John's wine when he grabs John's arm. "No, I'm not knackered like _that_. Just meant, I'm ready to unwind."

He moves closer to John who smiles nervously. Gerald stops right in front of him and puts his wine glass down on the table. He takes John's wine glass, too, which John lets go automatically. Gerald sets that one down, too. Then Gerald slides his hands up John's arms to John's face.

"I've-never-been-with–a-man-before," John blurts out, the words running together. He winces at his clumsy confession.

Gerald's hands drop to his side and he steps back. His face shutters; he's wary but not suspicious. The situation is salvageable.

"So you're questioning your sexuality?" Gerald asks carefully, his eyes narrowed.

"I'm not _questioning_ my sexuality. I've already done the questioning part. I _am_ bisexual. Full stop," John says and then clears his throat. "As far as why I'm here, well. That's a very easy question to answer. I'm here because you're gorgeous and I want you."

At the compliment, Gerald tucks his hair behind his ear, a gesture John has come to know means Gerald's feeling uncertain; but Gerald starts to smile, almost despite himself and before long, he's broken into a full grin and just like that, his face is open again. The sun is out. John bathes in it.

"Okay?" John asks.

"Yeah," Gerald says, licking his lips, unable to dampen his grin. "And, uh, I think you're gorgeous, too."

"Oh, well, of course. Everyone does. I have to peel them off of me."

Gerald throws his head back and laughs.

"Where's the loo?" John asks.

"Through the kitchen and then to the left. It's tucked up under the stairs."

John walks through the kitchen and then through a doorway into a roomy and comfortable sitting room. John knows right away this room is the heart of Gerald's home. For one, it's cluttered. Bookshelves line every available wall. A window directly across from the door looks out onto a small back garden.

A bachelor sized basket of unfolded laundry hides behind the small sofa and the neatly folded white cotton pants in a basket next to it shows the job was started and abandoned halfway through. John wonders if Gerald is wearing a pair of those white cotton pants right now and he grins.

An armchair in the corner sits in front of a floor lamp that hangs over the chair; it’s the perfect spot for reading. A beautiful oak armoire faces the sofa. One door is hanging open, showing a flat screen TV. The other door is closed. A desk to John's right is covered by today's edition of _The Guardian_. An empty mug sits next to it, forgotten.

The cluttered, casual room makes John feel like he knows Gerald better. It's almost like peeking into Gerald's mind and nosing around a bit. John smiles.

The loo is under the stairs off to the left from the sitting room so the ceiling slopes up. John uses the toilet, washes his hands, splashes some water on his face and wipes it off with the soft hand towel sitting on the edge of the sink. He looks at himself in the mirror and grimaces. His hair has gotten so much grayer since Sherlock died. The lines on his face have always been a product of too much sun plus lots of smiling and laughing but now there are a few lines of grief. John ducks his head and leaves the loo. He finds Gerald in the kitchen.

"So," Gerald says, with a little flourish of his hand. "Pasta Alfredo and maybe a salad? Oh, and plenty of wine, of course. Because when you meet a gorgeous stranger and take him home, it's only natural to ply him with alcohol to lower his inhibitions."

Gerald makes a little self-deprecating face and crosses his eyes and John laughs, like really, honestly laughs. Gerald grins, pleased with himself. He darts forward and kisses John, but before John can bring his hands up or deepen the kiss, Gerald pulls away. His cheeks are rosy and it looks beautiful on his pale skin.

"Now you've had your first kiss with a man," Gerald says and shrugs.

Gerald is confident without being arrogant, but this display of shyness leaves John giddy. It's been months since he's been with someone – over a year, actually, since he's kissed anyone and longer than that since he's had a good shag. Well, _any_ shag, good or not. So this is exciting.

They work in the kitchen together, John making the salad and Gerald whipping up the Alfredo sauce with an ease that makes it clear he's used to cooking. He doesn't even measure anything, just adds and looks and tastes and then finally decides it's done. He cracks some pepper over it and mixes the pasta in and serves it up in two dishes straight from the pot.

"Come on, then," he says. "Let's eat in the sitting room. I'll go back for the wine."

Gerald grabs forks out of the drawer next to the sink, and a couple of linen napkins, which John finds classy and unpretentious, like Gerald himself. Gerald sets their food down on TV trays, a stark contrast with the stark white linen napkins he places down next to their bowls of pasta. It makes John smile.

"Be right back," he says and goes through to the kitchen again. After about five minutes, he comes back with a bottle of Riesling.

"Mm," John says, food in his mouth, taking the proffered glass of glittering pale wine. He swallows. "Ta."

While they eat, Gerald keeps the conversation going. He's an excellent conversationalist, skillfully avoiding the topics John doesn't want to share with him yet. Gerald tells a few stories about horrible clients he's had to refuse to keep seeing or kick out altogether, and they laugh a lot, John's high pitched giggle and Gerald's full-bellied laugh blending in a comfortable harmony.

They talk about Afghanistan and when John says he was invalided out, Gerald doesn't pry, but on a whim, John explains why.

"Got shot," he says simply and then starts unbuttoning his shirt while Gerald's eyes go wide and his lips part.

John pulls his shirt off just enough to show the starburst pattern of his scar. Gerald's hand reaches out tentatively but then he pulls back and puts his hand in his lap and takes a huge swallow of his wine, his cheeks pinking delightfully again.

John doesn't need sexual experience with a man to recognize the signs of arousal. He knew them long before he ever experienced the deductive genius of Sherlock Holmes.

Seeing how affected Gerald is by the partial removal of his shirt, John decides to leave the top few buttons undone. He's not sure how far he wants to go tonight but he's certain he wants to spend as much time as needed kissing Gerald until he's unraveling. John knows how to take a lover apart and considers foreplay to be the main dish of a sexual encounter. Penetration and his orgasm are just dessert.

"You want to kiss me, don't you?" It sounds like a question, but it's not.  

"Is it that obvious?" Gerald asks, wrinkling his nose adorably in embarrassment.

"Yes," John says, his voice rough with arousal. He moves in for the kiss.

John expects Gerald's kiss to be hard, the opposite of a woman's soft pliancy but Gerald's full lips are soft and he lets John lead the kiss. They exchange open-mouthed kisses for a few minutes before John dares to dart his tongue out and run it along Gerald's lips. A soft, breathy moan escapes Gerald and that response ignites the desire in John's gut. Want and need twist and coil inside him. He grips Gerald roughly in his arms, pulling him closely and when that's not close enough, he puts his hands on Gerald's hips and yanks him. Gerald lands with half his arse in John's lap and they laugh against each other's lips.

"Slow down," Gerald breathes, once he's wrested his mouth away from John's.

"Hm, we probably should," John murmurs, brushing Gerald's hair aside to put his now free mouth and tongue to good use along Gerald's neck.

Gerald's face is stubbled, the skin on his neck rougher than a woman's. Where the feel of a woman's skin is sensual under John's lips and tongue, Gerald's skin is _carnal_ and sets a fire in John's gut that he doesn't worry about tamping down. With women, John always has to moderate his passion, worried about being too rough, careful not to let passion overrule sense, always aware of the fact that he can physically overpower her.

With Gerald, he lets his passion flare, doesn't have to constantly examine what he's doing and worry it's too much, too fast, too soon. He trusts Gerald to stop him if he needs to.

John comes to a terrifying realization.

He's spent his entire life paring down his virility to make himself palatable to women. If he had not fallen in love with Sherlock, then he wouldn't be sitting in Gerald's sitting room right now. His hands wouldn't be sneaking up under Gerald's shirt and his fingers wouldn't be threading through thick chest hair and he wouldn't be pressing his achingly hard cock against the lean stretch of Gerald's thigh.

John would have spent the _rest of his life_ being a shadow of the man he is at this moment and at this moment, John is male, primal, potent, _fully realized_.

He pulls back the collar of Gerald's shirt to suck and lick along the tendon while Gerald hisses and sighs. John pulls back and looks at him. Gerald's eyes are dark, his face flushed, his hair tangled where John's fingers were twisting through it.

Gerald, too, is male, primal, potent. John is on fire and Gerald is the bellows.

John cannot believe he's spent the last twenty plus years of his life not knowing that _this_ was out there for him to take. How could he not know he was bisexual? It seems ridiculous to him now. Yesterday he thought he was just Sherlock-exual and it turns out that falling in love with Sherlock has opened a door John hadn't even known was there.

"I want to be able to lay you down and kiss you," John murmurs.

"Yes," Gerald acquiesces and takes John's hand.

They hold hands all the way up the stairs. At the top, there is a short hallway that crooks to the right. There are two doors on the left, but Gerald leads him past them and turns right where the hallway abruptly ends in front of a door that has an actual _keypad_ next to it.

"Well, I bet that puts blokes off," John jokes.

"Well, the therapy room is just there," he nods at the two doors they passed while keying in the code. "This door leads to my bedroom and bathroom. I suppose it seems a bit excessive but  after having a few clients, who are now _former_ clients, rifling through my pants, I decided to get a bit stricter about my privacy."

John chuckles and Gerald holds it open so John can walk through. Through the door is _another_ short hallway. A door on the right and a door at the end, partially opened, the room beyond it cast in shadows. The sun has only been down about an hour.

"Through there's the bathroom," Gerald says, nodding to the door on the right.

Then he takes both of John's hands and pulls him backwards towards the dark room, staring at John with such a heated look that they're barely inside before John has Gerald caged in his arms, kissing him with unrelenting desire. He clutches Gerald's hips with his hands and pushes him towards the bed. When Gerald's knees hit the back of the bed, John begins to undress Gerald, kissing each inch of skin that gets exposed.

He slides Gerald's shirt off his shoulders and drops it behind him. Then he turns to Gerald and gives the exposed skin his full attention. Gerald has thick, black chest hair spread over his pectorals. His upper abdomen is smooth but the dark hair resumes underneath his belly button, trailing down, down, down and disappearing into his trousers. John trails his fingers through it and then lowers his head and drags his nose from the bare skin of Gerald's sternum, through his chest hair, inhaling deeply as he goes. It's intriguing the way Gerald's scent is concentrated in that dark tangle of chest hair. John continues his journey over Gerald's torso, up, up, up to Gerald's neck and then his ear.

"Gorgeous," John whispers and Gerald makes a sound in the back of his throat best described as a whimper. John grins against Gerald's neck, pleased and randy as fuck

"Are you sure this is your, um, your first time?" Gerald gasps as John patiently but persistently uses his mouth and hands, tongue and teeth, to lavish attention on every bit of Gerald's skin.

"First time with a man," John corrects, with a soft laugh.

"Apparently, seduction transfers easily between genders," Gerald inhales sharply on the last word and it disappears into his lungs.

John guides Gerald onto his back on the bed, but doesn't follow him down. Gerald crawls backwards onto the bed.

John kneels down and undoes the button and zip on Gerald's cargo trousers. Gerald lifts his hips without being told to and John tugs his trousers down so very slowly, trailing his fingertips as he goes, before dropping them behind him with Gerald's shirt. He never takes his eyes off of Gerald's. John wants him to know he's being conquered. Gerald is now laid out on the bed in nothing but his white cotton pants, already damp with Gerald's arousal. It's a beautiful sight. It's so much easier to tell whether a man is turned on, John realizes, although John would never wish that women were _easier_. John loves a challenge. Still. It's nice for the result of his careful seduction to be so obvious.

John tugs the waistband of Gerald's pants down just enough to release his erection, which bobs enthusiastically, his foreskin almost entirely retracted behind his glans, and already beading heavily with fluid. John reaches out and holds it loosely between his thumb and first two fingers, examining it intently. As far as penises go, John has to admit it's pretty fucking beautiful. It's dark with engorged blood, the rosy head flushed and slick. Gerald is panting and lifts his hips desperately but John doesn't give him what he wants. Not yet. When he reaches for his dick, John smacks his hand away with a playfully stern look.

"You're killing me, John," Gerald begs – and yes, he's begging. John knows begging when he hears it.

"I know," John says with a wicked grin.

"My God, I'm _so_ glad I chatted you up," Gerald replies with a puff of laughter. "Here I was worried about taking things too fast. _Christ_ , you still have all your fucking clothes on!"

John is a _very_ good lover. The same aspects of his personality that drove him to take on the ruthless training to be a trauma surgeon as well as drove him into serving Queen and Country in Afghanistan are the same characteristics that make him good in bed – John loves a challenge and he applies the same surgical skill to taking a lover apart as he did in putting wounded soldiers back together.

So John lets Gerald wait, building the anticipation, letting his eyes travel over Gerald's body as very slowly, John begins to unbutton his own shirt. When his shirt is off, he works off his belt, pulling it out of the belt loops with one jerk and drops it on the pile of clothes. He undoes his button and zip then leans over Gerald and pulls his pants off. Only then does John take off his jeans, chucking them on the hill of discarded clothing.

Gerald surges up but John puts him back down with a firm hand on his sternum and then kneels between Gerald's legs.

"You're going to show me how to give a fantastic blowjob," he says, his palms lighting on Gerald's shins.

"Oh, _Christ_ , John. I'm not sure I'll last long enough to teach you anything," Gerald says.

John lowers himself to his elbows between Gerald's thighs. At this point, he would kiss and lick his way up his lover's thighs but the other thing that comes with clearer indicators of arousal in a male lover is the refractory period between orgasms. So John decides to get them both off right now and save the more languorous sex for later in the night. (He's surprised that the idea of _later in the night_ even occurs to him but there it is.)

"Fast and dirty it is, then," John says.

He wraps his hand around the base of Gerald's erection and takes the head into his mouth. He experiments with his tongue, swirling it around the glans, then pushing it into the slit. Gerald is a writhing mess, his hands fisted in the sheets. John alternates between looking at Gerald's penis and looking at Gerald's face and after a few times, their eyes catch at the same time. Gerald lets out a litany of _oh_ and _fuck_ and _John_ and _your eyes_ as John sucks just the head into his mouth, watching Gerald's face while he does it.

"You don't need me to teach you anything," Gerald moans above him. "Christ, John, I'm already close."

"Hm," John murmurs and then pulls his lips back over his teeth, makes a tunnel out of his mouth, and pushes his head as far down as he can go on Gerald's cock before bobbing back up again.

Gerald reaches out a hand and tugs at John's hair with a warning _gonna come, gonna come_ and John pulls off, sliding Gerald's foreskin over his glans again and again with the fingers of his right hand, his left hand working up and down the shaft in counterpoint until Gerald comes. It is _brilliant_. Semen fountains up out of Gerald's cock and John doesn't know if he wants to watch that more than Gerald's face so his eyes flit back and forth between the two. John takes his hands off Gerald's foreskin and just uses his hand up and down the shaft to work Gerald through the last waves of his climax.

John takes himself in hand, using Gerald's semen as lube, and with a few short, firm strokes, spends himself onto Gerald's stomach.

"Oh, I wanted to suck you off," Gerald says, sounding blissfully sated rather than particularly disappointed.

John makes a dismissive noise. He wipes his hand on Gerald, who laughs but immediately stops laughing when John uses his fingers to mix their cum together, painting swirls and squares on Gerald's groin and stomach.

"Beautiful," John whispers, watching his finger move through the murky white evidence of his considerable talents. All men have, at one point or another, tasted their own spunk, but John has never tasted another man's. He brings his fingertip to his mouth and touches his tongue to it, then smacks it around his mouth with his tongue. He can't tell which is his and which is Gerald's but it tastes roughly the same. He licks the rest of it off the tip of his finger.

"Fucking Christ!" Gerald says when he sees what John is doing. "You're so ridiculously hot. My _God_ , I'm the luckiest man alive right now."

John crawls up Gerald's body to the pillows and kisses him.

"Rest up," he says.

"You're going to kill me," Gerald groans.

"Yep. I probably am," John says, nodding his head, grinning like an idiot.

~*~

Approximately ten hours after he meets Gerald, John is woken up by the insistent press of an erection against his backside. In his drowsy state, he doesn't think twice about pressing back against it. Gerald pushes himself gently against the cleft of John's arse. Gerald's hand - muscled just like his arms with large knuckles and prominent veins - reaches over John's waist and strokes John's prick, which begins to swell enthusiastically.

"God, John, I want to you so much I can't think straight," Gerald says softly.

The way he says it makes it sound like, _You are radiant and I want to bask in your light for a while_. John rolls over to face him. Gerald looks at him with tenderness and John is shocked by how much it affects him.

"Then take me," John says, his voice coming out sleepy-sexy, his hand dragging down Gerald's waist and then over the swell of his hip and back up his waist again.

Gerald smooths the tips of his two middle fingers over John's brow and down his cheekbone and around his jaw and then his hand picks up speed, his whole palm sliding around John's neck to his nape and then John is being kissed roughly and Gerald, who works his arms every day beating people, puts his arms around John and flips him onto his back.

John has never been manhandled by someone who intends to have sex with him. It has an irrepressible effect on him - it grabs his entire focus. John is no longer thinking about what he should be or could be or ought to be doing because every synapse in John's brain is riveted by Gerald, waiting to see what he does next. John himself is breathless with anticipation, certain that whatever Gerald does is likely to lead to a spectacular orgasm.

Gerald abruptly sits back on his heels and hooks his arms under John's knees and then leans forward. In seconds, John's thighs are pressed almost entirely against his chest and Gerald's cock is dangerously close to John's anus. John gasps, excited by the idea of being at the mercy of someone physically powerful, even though he knows that Gerald would never use physical force on him. (John can't explain how he knows that about someone he's known less than a dozen hours, but there it is). Besides, even if Gerald did try to force himself on John, he has no doubt he could fight him off.

Now John knows what it's like to be laid open and vulnerable to someone else and wonders if this is how all the women he's slept with felt. If so, he's glad he never let himself lose control, but it clarifies John's certainty that he's tired of being gentle. More to the point, he's tired of _having_ to be gentle.

He likes Gerald's large, muscled hands, his hard chest and straight hips. He likes being physically vulnerable. He's been in that place emotionally with a woman before, but he has never once felt the raw, almost painful thrill of danger he feels at this moment, bent in half and held down by Gerald's body.

"Have you ever fingered yourself?" Gerald asks.

He keeps himself raised above John and John can feel the cool air over the cleft of his arse. His cheeks are spread wide by the position Gerald has him in. John feels completely exposed.

"I tried but it was too hard to reach on my own and I never had the courage to ask a woman to do it for me. Afraid she would think I was." He stops, his face burning in humiliation.

"Afraid she would think you were gay?" Gerald asks gently.

"Yeah," John admits, turning his face to the side.

"You know it doesn't mean you're an ignorant, backwards arsehole to feel that way, right?"

John scoffs. "I'm pretty sure that's exactly what it means."

Gerald gently guides John's legs back onto the bed and then lies down, pressing up against John and keeping their legs knitted together so that contact isn't broken but John is no longer physically vulnerable. John can feel Gerald's lost erection against his thigh and stifles the frustration he feels at having derailed their plans.

"Look, John," Gerald says, his fingers brushing idle circles over John's stomach and chest. "Even with all the progress the gay community, and society at large, has made, being openly gay is difficult. In many ways, it means living in constant fear - fear of violence, fear that your job will be jeopardized, fear of judgement from co-workers, family, and friends, fear that you could _lose_ your family and friends. It means constantly being aware of how you look and act.

"My parents are very socially liberal, and have always strongly supported human rights, including gay rights. Even then I was afraid to tell them I was gay. I might not have told them for years except that a few days before Christmas my first year at Oxford, my mother walked in on me performing oral sex on the boy from next door, who also happened to be my best friend and flatmate at Oxford. I was humiliated but Cyril just pulled a blanket over us, and said, 'We'll be down in a mo, Mrs. Glass, and then you can yell at us.' Cool as you please, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He'd come out to his parents practically as soon as he knew what it meant."

"And did she? Yell at you, that is?" John asks, turning over onto his side, fascinated by Gerald's frank confession.

"No, she was too gobsmacked to say anything. We just went on as though she hadn't caught me with Cyril's cock down my throat. Cyril turned it into a comedy but I went back to Oxford feeling like I'd lost her forever. We were always so close. Still are."

"What happened to Cyril?"

"Oh, he's still my best friend. It only took about six months shagging Cyril to realize that I wanted true love and wasn't going to get it from him. He doesn't want a relationship, still. Doesn't believe in romance. For himself, that is. So long as he's got someone to shag and his friends, he feels fulfilled."

"And did you work it out with your mum?"

"Oh, eventually. She asked me to come down for mid-term so I did and she sat me down and explained herself. She said she'd always believed she knew her children better than anyone else did, even better than they knew themselves, and it was a shock for her to discover she didn't know me as well as she thought. She said in hindsight, it was obvious. I'd never dated any girls, never asked one out, never talked about girls. I'd never talked about boys, either, to be fair. It was painful for her, I think. She felt like she'd not been a proper mum, like she'd made me feel she would judge me for liking boys."

"What about your dad?"

"She told my dad after she talked to me that mid-term of my first year but I'd already gone back. My dad was uncomfortable around me for a while when I came home for summer holiday, but that's just because he's British. Talking about sex just isn't on," Gerald says and laughs.

"My sister's gay," John says. "My parents didn't take it very well."

"Well, there you go," Gerald says, as if that explains everything.

"What do you mean, _there you go_?"

"No wonder you didn't want to admit you were gay. Bisexual, I mean. Because you _do_ like women, right?"

"Yeah," John says, not sounding very enthusiastic, which Gerald picks up on immediately.

"That doesn't sound very convincing," he says, sounding slightly smug.

"Oh, you think you've completely turned me off women forever, is that it?" John asks, rising up onto his elbow to look at Gerald.

Gerald's hair is spread out on the pillow behind him, a black splash against the ivory pillow cases. A study in monochrome. He likes Gerald's long hair because he's always liked burying his hands into a luxurious head of hair. He used to fantasize about pushing his fingers into Sherlock's hair, tangling it up, fisting it and pulling his head back to expose that ridiculously long, white neck. John swallows hard and closes his eyes, his desire morphing into a tight pain in his chest. John feels Gerald's hand cup his shoulder before sliding down and taking his hand, their fingers tangling together. John doesn't open his eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Gerald asks softly.

John shakes his head; the last thing he wants to do while lying naked in the bed of a sexy stranger is talk about Sherlock. So he's shocked as hell when he starts talking about it anyway. He's never told anyone about his feelings for Sherlock and it's like opening a floodgate. He spills it all out, sometimes sobbing, sometimes laughing, the story far from chronologically cohesive. The whole time, Gerald never looks at him with impatience or pity.

It's four in the morning before John stops talking. He's utterly exhausted. Gerald's head is lying on John's chest and John is absentmindedly threading his fingers through Gerald's hair, his fingertips catching on tangles every now and again. The perfume of Gerald's hair is spicy and fruity; John wraps two fingers around a thick lock and brings it up to his nose to pull the scent in deeper.

"Did you just smell my hair?" Gerald asks, his voice teasing.

"I did," John says without self-consciousness and then lifts his head off the pillow to bury his nose against Gerald's scalp, sniffing with cartoonish exaggeration.

Gerald laughs. "Hair kink?"

"Hm," John murmurs thoughtfully. "Not a large enough pool of subjects to extrapolate data from," he answers, sounding exactly like Sherlock, reminding him of the two hours he's just spent talking about him. He tells Gerald, "You're so easy to talk to."

Gerald chuckles. "I'm a therapist, remember? I've always been that way, the person my friends and family come to when they need to talk. I think it's because I have an open face and an unthreatening personality. People can tell I'm not going to judge them or try to fix them."

"Isn't fixing people basically what a therapist is supposed to do?" John asks.

"God, no," Gerald says, sounding irritated. "My job isn't to fix anyone. I get clients who get angry at me because they're still having issues after months of therapy and I'm like, look, you're the one who refuses to accept any responsibility. 'Well, but my wife left me. I didn't do anything wrong.'" Gerald is getting agitated, his voice louder. This is a sore subject, one he very clearly needs to vent about. "They don't get that it's not accepting responsibility for other people's decisions. It's accepting responsibility for their _own_ decisions and feelings. 'I get that you're not to blame for your wife leaving you. But just because she hurt you doesn't mean her _intention_ was to hurt you.' So many idiots confuse perception with intent, which is _literally_ a developmental milestone you're supposed to have grown out of before adolescence. By the time a child is eight years old, they've begun to separate their perception of events from other people's intent.

"For example, if you trip over someone's foot and hurt yourself, that doesn't automatically mean they _intended_ for you to get hurt and it's certainly not the first assumption you should make. In fact, humans are well equipped to differentiate between a threat and an accidental or collateral injury. It's hardwired into our neurons. So, unless someone has autism or another neurological disorder that prevents them from classifying facial expressions and body language, then blaming other people for their problems just makes them a stubborn arsehole."

There's silence for a moment before John starts sniggering. Gerald pinches his nipple in retaliation.

"Shut up," Gerald says with mock petulance. "Therapists need to talk about their feelings, too, you know."

"But if the world wasn't full of stubborn arseholes, you wouldn't have a job," John points out.

"Pfft. Stubborn arseholes are part of the reason why I became a Dom slash therapist instead of sitting in a tastefully decorated room listening to someone complain about their life when they just keep making the same mistakes over and over again," Gerald says. Then, apropos of nothing blurts out, "Will I see you again?"

John stills his hand for a minute on top of Gerald's head, trying to catch up.

"Course you will," John murmurs. "Why would you not see me again?"

"It's just, I thought maybe - since this was the first time - you might feel, you know," Gerald finishes with a frustrated groan. He turns his face into John's chest.

"You thought I would be too ashamed to see you again?" John guesses.

Gerald lifts his head, brings his arm up and rests his chin on the back of his hand so he can look at John's face.

"Not ashamed, no," Gerald says. "I just wondered if this was more about getting that whole _first time_ business out of the way."

"You mean, you thought I was using you?" John asks, slightly indignant, then realizes Gerald has only known him roughly twelve hours and has every right to ask.

"It's not anything you did, I promise. It's just that, well, clearly you're still very much in love with Sherlock and I didn't think you would want more than, you know, a one night stand."

Gerald pauses and John knows he's trying to think of how to phrase whatever he's about to say next. John braces himself for a lecture about letting go and moving on, like he's not aware that's the accepted route grief should take, so he's surprised by what Gerald actually says.

"The thing is," Gerald says carefully. "I don't do sex-only relationships. I'm not - I don't get _around_ much, really. I certainly don't have sex with men I've just met. Ever."

"To be fair, it was more like a mutual wank," John says, trying to sound lighthearted but coming out sounding dismissive instead. "I mean, it's not exactly _sex_. Honestly, I'm not sure I could handle having sex with someone right now."

"First of all, if someone else is involved, it's sex. Second of all, I'm glad you're not in a rush because I like to take my time."

"How many men have you had sex with?" John asks, and then immediately rushes to apologize for his rudeness.

"It's okay, John," Gerald says, patting John's hip. "But the answer depends on what you mean by _sex_."

"Okay, well, what do _you_ mean by _sex_ ," John asks.

"Well, to me, if I touch someone's genitals with any part of my body and it leads to an orgasm for him or myself or both, then we've had sex."

"According to that, you and I've had sex," John says, sounding more skeptical than he means to.

"Yes, I do, but I reckon what you're asking is how many men I've had _anal_ sex with," Gerald says wryly.

John's face colors with heat. "Sorry, I'm, that was insensitive of me."

"No, not at all. It's what we're taught living in a heteronormative society, which is why I emphasized the difference. If you want to fully integrate yourself into the LGBQT community, these are things you need to know. Secret handshakes and stuff. And the answer to your question is two."

"My question?" John mumbles and then remembers his question and can't disguise his prurient fascination. "Oh, my God, _really_? Only two?"

Gerald laughs. "I knew that's how you would react! Yes, only two."

"And was this - was Cyril one of them?"

"No, we never got that far. They were both serious relationships. One I was with for about five years. The other I was with for six. I've been single for well over a year. So this is the first sex I've had in almost two years," Gerald says and then pauses and looks at John with narrowed eyes for a minute. "Do you understand what I'm saying about how we define sex?"

"I feel like this is a trick question," John says.

"It's really not."

John shrugs, afraid of saying something that will call attention to how very pedestrian John's worldview is. He doesn't want to disappoint Gerald, so he says nothing.

"Sorry," Gerald says.

"It's okay."

"I feel like I'm lecturing you, but I've never been involved with someone who was straight for their entire life."

"Not straight anymore," John points out.

"Definitely not straight anymore," Gerald agrees. "I suppose, though, that I want you to understand that for me, and for many gay people, the word _sex_ refers to sexual acts. I mean, consider lesbians. They don't have penises. They can still penetrate but only with their fingers or a dildo but millions of lesbians would rip your head off for suggesting that they're not having sex with their girlfriend if all they ever use is their fingers and their mouth. To me, that makes gay sex more intimate because we're not just getting things out of the way so we can get to the part where someone penetrates someone else. I've always felt sorry for straight women. I imagine most men only use foreplay as a means to penetration and don't bother otherwise."

"Yeah, I was kind of unusual in that way," John agrees.

"I bet you were every woman's wet dream," Gerald says and strokes his hand up and down John's stomach. "Now you're every man's wet dream."

"I swear if you say _penetrate_ or _penis_ or even _wet dream_ one more time, I will combust," John says hoarsely.

"Don't make fun," Gerald chides, sounding a little hurt.

"I'm fucking serious, mate," John says. "My dick is rock hard."

John feels Gerald turn his head before murmuring, "So it is."

Then his hand is reaching out and wrapping around John's cock and his head is coming up so they can kiss and when the sun comes up an hour later, they're lying in a panting, sweaty, sticky heap of post-coital bliss.

"I do want to, though," John says out of the blue.

"Want to what?" Gerald asks, his voice drowsy.

"Be penetrated. You know. By you."

Gerald breaks out in a cackling laugh that's so out of context with his gentle, classy exterior that John joins in the laughter even as he's poking Gerald in the ribs, annoyed.

"I'm serious, Gerald," John says managing to sound irritated while laughing.

"I know, I know," Gerald agrees. "It was just so, I mean that whole conversation was an hour ago!"

"Yes, but I was thinking about it _now_ and I just wanted you to know that it's something I think I'd like to have with _you_ ," John says, feeling emotionally vulnerable.

Gerald looks over at him, his brows drawn together, looking pleasantly surprised.

"Yeah," he murmurs, leaning close and kissing John's cheek. "I think I want that with you, too."

"Good," John says, turning his head towards Gerald. He grins. "Very good."

"Yeah," Gerald says, also grinning. "It is, isn't it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful, selfless, indispensable betas: Boonchandi and StarlingGirl. They both have full time jobs and take time out to read my shit, correct my mistakes, send it back to me and THEN they do it all over again after I've made the corrections! I'm now convinced I can't write without them so if I disappear off of ao3, you know who to blame.
> 
> Any mistakes you find were added after their hard work.

**Author's Note:**

> Subscribe for updates because I'll be posting a new part every week for the next 10 weeks (posted usually on Sunday)  
> ..........  
> Thanks to Boonchandi and StarlingGirl30 for their grammar and punctuation changes and questioning my questionable writing.  
> .................  
> I love getting emails from readers! Email me at archiveofmyown@gmail.com.
> 
> Teddy


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